The Protégé
by Andrithir
Summary: Created from the loins of Tom Riddle and Alan Fisher, David Grayson is plagued with the memories of his genetic brothers, haunted by the horrific brutality laced within their depths. Only the enemy of his Creator can help him find peace from his turbulent origins.


**A/N: Just a plot bunny that WON'T STOP BOTHERING ME!**

**XXxxXX**

_**The Protégé**_

**Hogwarts, Medical Wing, 1995**

It had been one hell of a year for the British Wizarding World. Voldemor had returned, and in his wake; Cedric was dead and Harry's faith was fading. Dumbledore had tried his best to maintain a semblance of balance in a society descending into madness. The irony of it all was not lost on the Headmaster of Hogwarts.

Before he had gained wisdom, he believed that muggles should be controlled. But as time went on, he realised that limitations were a means for expansion and betterment. The only reason why Britain's Wizarding society had barely evolved at all was because of Muggleborns and Half-bloods.

Muggles were limited with what they had to begin with. It was because of their limitations that they had climbed so high and evolved so much. Science was theirs, it was their tool but it was not a part of them like magic is a part of magical beings.

Magic made things all too easy. With everything at their fingertips, few endeavoured for greater heights of knowledge. But the boy that lay in the bed in front of him was the culmination of centuries of science and magic.

He was well built for someone his age, broad shoulders and dense muscle. He had neat dark brown hair and rugged features. Girls around his age would be swooning for him simply for his looks, but would they still chase after him if they knew who he was.

Slughorn had seen the boy, and nearly passed out. The boy's face has brought back many painful memories for the Potions Master.

"My goodness," Madam Pomfrey whispered.

"What is it Poppy?"

"He's in _perfect_ physical condition. His magical core is extraordinarily powerful… where'd you find him?"

"Snape brought him in," Dumbledore answered.

"Does he have a name?"

"I do not know."

"Why did Horace…"

"… React the way he did?" Dumbledore finished.

The Healer nodded.

"I don't know if I should tell you this, but Snape said this boy was created from the loins of Voldemort and a man named Alan Fisher."

Poppy spun around, eyes wide and face pale.

"Do you mean he's You-Know-Whose son?" she nearly screamed.

The news had been so shocking she had lost all composure.

"Not quite," Dumbledore explained. "Severus said that this boy here is one of the many attempts of Voldemort to create a protégé. But like his predecessors, this boy had a 'negative' reaction to the Dark Lord's memories."

Poppy tried to speak, but her voice failed her.

"Voldemort ordered the child's destruction, but in an act of self-preservation, the boy's subconscious performed accidental magic to escape."

"So what of the boy's origins?" the Healer inquired.

"He is as the muggles say; the clone of Voldemort and another. Bred to be superior."

Pomfrey's eyes glazed over as she realised the magnitude of destruction this child could cause. He was Voldemort protégé, a powerful clone.

"I have faith in the boy to see the light," Dumbledore reassured.

"Albus, you and I both know that he could be used for the Dark as well. What if the boy had not escaped from Voldemort's clutches? But had been sent here to kill Harry instead?"

"I have faith in Severus."

"And what if Severus had been played by Voldemort? I appreciate you believing in me and Minerva to be your confidant, but this is too much. Where do you draw the line Albus? We're sheltering a creation of Voldemort!"

The doors to the infirmary parted as McGonagall came rushing in. She was still in her night dress having retired for the night. But when Slughorn had entered the staff common room, she had known that something was wrong.

"Albus, Horace had said…"

"I know, Minerva," Dumbledore said calmly, "he is here."

Minerva slowed down to a halt and walked to the bedside. His Master's reputation proceeded before him, she was almost afraid of standing so close to the 'harmless' boy lying asleep.

"Are you sure this is a good idea? We should get rid of him!"

"And where will he go?" Dumbledore asked. "If I abandon him like I did with Tom, there will be another Dark Lord to contend with. This boy needs guidance."

Both the Healer and the Deputy Head stared at the Headmaster. He had just confessed or at least gave an idea to who the man the Dark Lord once was. It also revealed his age old guilt he had held with him for most of his elderly life.

"I ask that you have faith," Dumbledore said. "I will do what I can to guide this boy."

"And what if he turns to the Dark?" McGonagall questioned. "What happens then? Voldemort would've made this boy a killing machine. We all know that Harry has been kept alive this far by sheer dumb luck and Miss Granger."

"I'm putting him into a coma until we can decide what to do," Pomfrey declared.

"No," Dumbledore ordered. "See what Voldemort has made you all? Fearful. You must not fear him."

"You do not need to see fear to have logic," McGonagall countered. "I regretted your decision to leave Harry on the Dursley's doorsteps but allowed it. But this here is too far. You wish to shelter a creation of the Dark Lord!"

"He could prove to be a great ally, and I will not condemn him to damnation like I did with Tom."

"But what if he kills Harry Potter! You cannot ignore that."

"Have faith," Dumbledore pleaded, "please."

…

_The room was white, sterile with bright lights bearing down on his pale skin. One man stood in front of him, probably in his late forties. He looked like an overworked doctor._

"_You haven't slept for a two days. Remember you came to us, you chose to be a part of this program… you volunteered."_

"Something's wrong."

"_Alan, we can't keep on going like this forever," the doctor gestured towards another man sitting in the corner. Bound, gagged and a bag over his head._

"_What did he do?" Alan asked weakly._

"_It doesn't matter what he did. You've got to make a choice. There is no turning back."_

"This isn't me!"

_Alan breathed heavily as he wrapped his finger around the pistol in his hand. With grim determination he rose from his chair, and shot the bound man. He shuddered under the impact of five bullets crashing through his chest. Blood dripped onto the white tile as he slumped and his head roll listlessly._

"_You've passed selection, Alan," the doctor nodded, "welcome to the program."_

Memories, more memories. Memories that felt they were a part of him, but didn't belong to him. Each memory was more painful than the last, but each was filled with so much knowledge… and suffering.

"_Please! Kill me!" a woman begged. Her hair was red, and she looked too young to be a mother. But somehow, this world was different to Alan's. This world was filled with bigotry and fear; it was primitive and socially stagnant._

"_As you wish," Voldemort said coldly._

_The woman screamed seconds before the Killing Curse coursed through her body, ending her life then and there. Tom Marvolo Riddle looked at the body with mere contempt as he turned his attention to the baby in the crib._

"_Avada Kedavra," he uttered._

_Everything faded to black._

…

"Wake up my dear boy," an elderly man said.

There was warmth in his voice, like a grandfather. It was so familiar, yet so distant. Just like those memories.

"Dumbledore?" the teenager asked weakly.

He had taken a stab in the dark, he didn't even know if this man was Dumbledore. But deep in the recesses of his mind were so many unexplored memories, none belonging to him.

"Yes, my boy," the old wizard reassured.

The boy opened his eyes for the first time, but felt it burn as the first ray of light fell upon his face. Soon, all of his sense came rushing to him for the first time in his life. His ears throbbed, his eyes burned and he smelt something strong in the air. Alan's memories said that it was soap he smelt.

He looked around the stone hall; he was in the infirmary at Hogwarts. He knew that from Tom's memories. But the Alan in him was sceptical.

"Where am I?" he asked for good measure.

"You're safe," Dumbledore smiled, "Voldemort cannot touch you, here."

The boy looked sharply at the Headmaster, but his eyes burned.

"Who am I?"

The old wizard's expression saddened. "Not now my boy, you need rest."

"I don't even know my name," he begged.

"You don't have one," Dumbledore said calmly. "Would you like me to pick a name for you?"

The boy shook his head. "David, David Grayson. Can that be my name?"

Dumbledore looked upon the boy; his eyes were filled with loss and despair, pleading for direction. The old wizard nodded.

"Of course, David."

The boy sighed and lay back into the bed, easing his tense body.

"Who am I?" David asked.

"I found you," Dumbledore said. "I know all there is about you."

"Can you tell me?" David pleaded.

"Very well then," Dumbledore sighed. "You might as well know the truth… or those memories will haunt you forever."

_Memories? How does he know!_ That was Alan speaking.

David's heart quickened as Alan's instincts screamed danger. He felt his fists instinctively curl underneath the bed sheets. He looked down and realised he was wearing some kind of form fitting bodysuit with ports for medical equipment.

"You are the creation from the blood of both Tom Marvolo Riddle and Alan Tim Fisher. Tom as you know is the Dark Lord named Voldemort. I do not know much about Mister Grayson, no more than the fact that the journals I found you with."

Dumbledore handed David a black hardcover book, it looked well used but not worn.

"That is all we know about you," the Headmaster said.

David flicked through the book and absorbed the information on every single page. He knew them all already, but he still needed to see it. He wanted to confirm the memories that weren't his. His fingers pranced back and forth across the pages as he flipped the papers in quick succession.

Dumbledore arched an eyebrow as he marvelled the rate of absorption; he could see it in the way how David's eyes rapidly scrolled down the page before beginning back at the top again. Upon reading the last entry, David gently closed the book and placed it on the nightstand.

"What happens to me know?" David whispered. "Are you going to kill me?"

"No," Dumbledore reassured, "it wouldn't be right. I have something else for you though, a chance at a normal life."

David exhaled as he leaned back into his pillow. Somehow that sounded too good to be true; a normal life. These were his first waking moments and already he knew the intricacies of human psychology, advanced mathematics and chemistry, advance combat magic and specialist training. The memories of Alan Fisher and Tom Riddle had been ingrained into him, and his body had been conditioned to carry out their abilities. But a normal life was something he could never have. Grayson had given up happiness to do something he believed was right and his calling.

The memories gave him decades of experience and knowledge, but they robbed him of being able to see the world as a place capable of providing happiness.

"A normal life?" David repeated.

"As close as it can get, my dear boy," Dumbledore said.

David smiled at the way how the Headmaster addressed him. It gave him hope. But he knew it was false hope… or maybe that was Alan talking.

"What have I got to lose?" David shrugged.

**XXxxXX**

**Hogwarts, Great Hall – after End of School year break, 1995**

For Harry, it felt weird returning back to Hogwarts. It was a place of awakening for him as he had found a place where he was accepted, but at the same time he found the weight of the world weighing on his shoulders. '95 hadn't been a kind year to him. He had to attend a Tournament in which he had no say in. He had to watch Cedric die and Voldemort's resurrection. Then to add more salt to the wound he was declared Public Enemy Number 1 by the Ministry, hence the Dementor attack.

It was times like these he wished he could high-tail it with a few close friends and move to Canada, or America, or New Zealand or Australia. The Wizarding community in those countries were far less bigoted than Britain's seeing as there were virtually no Purebloods living in those countries. From what Hermione had told him, wizards and witches in the aforementioned nations do not live in traditionalist communities but were well versed with muggle lifestyle.

"Harry, are you alright? Hermione asked.

He turned in his seat and looked at a pair of concerned brown eyes gazing at him. Ever since she had learned what had happened over the holidays, Hermione had become increasingly protective of him. She still hadn't forgiven Ron for abandoning him during the tournament, and she still held a grudge against most of the student body.

"I'm fine," Harry smiled weakly.

"No you're not," Hermione frowned. "Do you want to talk about it?"

He shifted his gaze to the stone paved floor.

"Harry, you should talk to someone about it. It's not healthy keeping it in."

"After dinner, our spot in the common room."

Hermione beamed, especially at the part where he said 'our spot'. Being the best friend of the Boy-Who-Lived was a privilege and a responsibility, but being the best friend of Harry Potter was a gift… and it was so worth it.

"Have you seen Ron?" Harry asked.

The brunette shook her head, her wavy locks bounced around well after she had stopped.

"Said he was going to the toilet," Harry frowned, "didn't think it would take him this long… though why should I care, he's done it before."

"Harry…" Hermione consoled. She placed a comforting hand on his arm.

"Sorry, it's just…"

"… You're not used to having him around, after all what's happened," Hermione finished.

"Feels weird. I mean, he's our best friend and all, but it just… I don't know," he shrugged. "Doesn't feel right."

"To be honest Harry, I was friends with him through you. All we ever do is argue."

He gave a short laugh. "I keep thinking you two would always pull wands on each other with those arguments."

"They get pretty intense," Hermione agreed. "But you're always there to stop us."

"Yeah, I wonder what kind of collateral damage you would cause if I'm not," Harry joked.

"Prat!" Hermione swatted his arm playfully.

The two continued on with their banter until the first years arrived. Usually Harry didn't pay attention to the sorting ceremony, but the Sorting Hat's cryptic words struck a chord deep within him. All eyes in the hall turned onto the talking headwear as it began.

"_The Chosen One stands, almost alone he is.  
The Dark Lord has returned, and alone he is not.  
The Fog lays ahead, a prelude to the storm that is coming.  
Many will not come out of the howling darkness.  
The Dark Lord has returned.  
Drums echo upon the horizon.  
Birds of machine will fly ahead.  
If the Dark Lord wins, the magical world as you know it will be purged with flame.  
War is coming.  
War is coming.  
Blood will stain the risers, screams will fill the air, and the earth shall tremble.  
War is coming, it will be here soon.  
Choose your ideals to fight for, choose who you wish to fight with.  
For if the Dark Lord is triumphant, the darkness will be purged with fire.  
And everything you know will be forever erased and turned into nothing but ash.  
War is coming.  
War is coming."_

An eerie silence crept amongst the hall; no one dared talk as the Headmaster walked to the podium. Through a Sonorus charm, he addressed the students.

"Welcome to Hogwarts, school of witchcraft and wizardry," Dumbledore greeted the first years. "I wish it were under better circumstances."

The role was called, and soon Harry tuned out. That was until Dumbledore spoke once more.

"We have another student joining us. For the past few years, Mister David Grayson has been around the world with his father for diplomat reasons. He now returns to Britain to finish off his Wizarding education. Mister Grayson, if you please."

Harry saw the teenager walk down the hall with all eyes focused on him. There was something eerily familiar about him. In his deep concentration, Harry failed to notice half of the girls eye David with more than friendly intentions.

Harry examined the way how David walked, there was nothing but cold impersonality in his stride. It was methodical and devoid of all emotions, but his dark eyes were conflicted however, as if he was in turmoil with his inner self. His eyes darted back and forth over the hall as if it was searching for someone who might attack him. It was as if David feared for his life.

"If you can sit on the stool, Mister Grayson," McGonagall commanded.

The Deputy Head's immediate stiffness in posture was not lost on Harry. He was second smartest in the year, and he could easily pick up on the immediate change in the Transfigurations Teacher. It scared him; he could see fear in McGonagall's eyes. Why would she have to fear David?

_Maybe it's not fear of David, maybe fear for him._ Harry reasoned.

He kept his eye on the hat as it pondered out aloud.

"You have learnt many things in your travels, Mister Grayson. But much of you are still left to be desired… Ravenclaw!"

David stood, and walked to the Ravenclaw table, sitting down next to Luna Lovegood.

"Now, let the feast begin," Dumbledore said.

Food winked into existence on the plates and the events of tonight became a hot topic discussion at the dinner table. Harry could help but notice David eating his food with extreme caution as if someone was out to poison him. He looked like a bundle of nerves wrapped hastily together. He wasn't outwardly jumpy, but Harry could see it in his small mannerisms.

"Harry, eat your food before it gets cold," Hermione sighed before chewing thoughtfully on a bite of lamb shank.

"Yes mum," Harry teased. But his tone held no hint of mirth in them.

"What's wrong?" Hermione asked, instantly noticing a friend's serious behaviour.

"David, there's something about him."

"You saw it too?"

Harry nodded.

"We can always talk to him tomorrow," Hermione suggested.

"I guess we could."

**XXxxXX**

**A/N: Well that plot bunny just wouldn't leave me alone.**

**Anyway, please review and let me know what you think.**


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